Desert Island Discs

With nothing to eat but Kettle Crisps and Spam,

Salt on a salted sea, open always,

I floated along on the wreckage of a Spar,

Partly hydrogenated, like the waves.

What is this shore on which I’m beached? What are

These alte cocker spaniels doing here,

Beyond both bath and bed? I know the sound.

It’s 50s rock n roll up in the trees.

Chestnut is what I think, but I’m not sure.

I hope it lasts. And me. The saints preserve

Berry and Little Richard. Little I

Know of nesting among the spanielled crowd.

Never too late, doo-wop doo-wop, I pray.